Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2011 23:50:45 -0700 (PDT)
From: Rod Storme <rod.storme@yahoo.com>
Subject: Hard Trainin' the Kid 3

Copyright 2011 by the author

rod.storme@yahoo.com


*HARD TRAININ' THE KID*
PART 2 Chapter 2

**Adults only. Gay sex and bondage.**


Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for the kind words. And thanks for
waiting. Your old Rod Storme ain't no Barbara Cartland, and peckin' away on
this machine is hard work for this crusty Marine. We now rejoin the kid and
his fearsome Sarge on the farm, where, if you remember, the bare,
rudimentary play from the flashlight made strange little shadows.  It
illuminated a patch of grass here and there, the chipped paint of the rusty
steel fence, and the trim little upturned butt.  The whip hummed in the
night air as I swung it.  The kid flinched like a nervous racehorse as I
made a terrific CRACK with the tail against the stars.  I lined-up the
stroke, pressing the leather against the skin of his tensed rump.

"You were ordered to work on those boots, boy.  You think you're gonna pass
the entrance-test by standin' around slackin' while yer think I'm not
watchin'?"

"SIR!  NO!  SIR!"

"You reckon the punk-ass recruit needs a whippin'?"

"SIR!  YES!  SIR!"

"What's that?"

"SIR!  THE PUNK-ASS RECRUIT NEEDS A WHIPPIN'?"

Good enough for me.

There was a short whistle as the flying leather burned the air, then the
stunning contact of braided rawhide on tight flesh.  Guys, not many of you
will have felt the stroke of a buggy-whip.  I needed the kid to feel it
early on in our acquaintance so he knew what he was in for if he chose to
go on.  The horrific, sharp CRACK was followed by a pause of disbelief,
then:

"*SHIT!!!* *FUCK!!* *SHIT!!!*..."

"Boy, how many cuts you think you're deservin' of!"

"*ONE!!!* ***ONE!!!*** SHIT!!!"

"Try six.  Get yer fuckin' legs apart!"

"*SHIT!!!*"

The whip shrieked hotly and briefly.

*CRACK!*

The second stroke took him completely by surprise.  The whistle in the air
before it landed was nowhere near enough time for a punk-ass recruit to
prepare mentally.  Already doubled over, he folded his head and neck
further downwards and under, and in the pale light I saw his face open up
in an expression of appalled astonishment.

"***FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!...***"

I wondered how close Mike's neighbours were.

"You gotta count, boy.  Your hoary old Sergeant ain't that good with
numbers."

"*SIR!* *TWO!* *SIR!*" he yelled frantically.

"Bzzzt!  Wrong answer.  You forgot to count from one.  Start again."

"***SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!***"

Before he had time to collect his wits, the third stroke came down.  The
whistle gave a moment's notice and;

*CRACK!*

"ARGHHHH!!!  SHIT!!!  SIR!  ONE!  SIR!"

If it's one thing the buggy-whip can teach a lad, it's how to count
carefully, and make damn sure the count is correctly announced.  No way
does the recruit want his drill-Sergeant to mishear or forget the number of
strokes applied, and my boy did the job admirably – after he fucked up
on the first two cuts, that is.  But after that he was most strident indeed
and concerned to see that the number was correct.

Six cuts.  Plus two.  That old buggy-slash I'd taken from Mike's shed was
pretty much as swift and effective as any I'd used, despite its lack of
care.  I'd known many guys to take one cut and then bail, blubbing and
sobbing and begging for mercy.  Only a few went on to take two, and of
course I expected the kid to finish up there and then.  I was all prepared
to take him into the house, give him a tube of cream for his burning
stripes, and get ready for the trip back to the city first thing in the
morning, the whole "entrance-test" business aborted.  Yep, I was ready to
melt the Sgt. Storme act and turn softy at the first tears from the kid.

But the kid had taken three cuts and had started counting "one" on the
third.  When he shouted "two" I wanted to say "c'mon kid, that's enough.
Let's go inside and put that tender little ass of yours in the bath.  It's
cold out here."

You guys are thinkin' Rod Storme isn't the hard motherfucker you thought he
was, and maybe you're right, I'm not.  Truth was, I was sure that kid
wouldn't take a full set of whip-cuts before blubbering.

Three.  The weighted, full bodied crack made me wince.

"*SIR!* *THREE!* *SIR!*"

Fuck me.  The Ballet-dancin' boy had taken five cuts with a buggy-whip!
Naked, bent over hard and chained to a steel fence in the night, he still
had the guts to announce the strokes.  One humane word from me and he would
have given in.  I'm still sure of that.  But the alternative was the next
red-hot stroke, and that's what he got.  Surely he was going to break down!
Surely!

I delayed, letting him wait.  For you guys out there thinking I'm a cruel
son-of-a-bitch, that kid had every opportunity to twist his pretty noggin
around and beg ol' Sgt. Storme for mercy.  That's what he should have done.
Oh, he twisted around all right, and that flop-haired bonce was dripping
with snot, but the tough little dancer-boy gave me no indication that he
was ready for anything other than the next cut and to yell out the number.
Fuck it.  The fourth (sixth!) stroke landed with a heavy thwacking *CRACK*
more practiced than the previous ones.  It split the night air, and was
followed immediately by the kid's manful bellow.

"***HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!***" he went, howling and roaring like nothing
else.  By this time I'd fairly arrived at the sorry conclusion that the kid
had beaten ol' Sgt. Storme in the whippin' contest.  No man I'd known had
taken anywhere near six cuts, and his thundering holler hadn't yet become
an uncontrolled blubbering.  The long, low, forceful bawl carried a
courageous acceptance.  However, I still had a couple of little tricks
which might tip him over the edge.

I landed the next whip-stroke before he'd counted, while he still tried to
recover from the last.

"***SHIT!!!*** ***SHIT!!!*** ***SHIT!!!*** ***FUCK!!!*** ***SHIT!!!*** "

He knew he'd missed another one, and his loud curses were a dreadful
lament.  Now it was six plus three.

"***SIR!!!*** ***FOUR!!!*** ***SIR!!!***" he squeezed out at top volume.

"You still got two to go, kid.  Seems to me you've muffed a few without
countin'.  Fucks me how you'd let `em go unnoticed.  Maybe your ol'
Sergeant Storme better lay `em on harder."

"FUCK!!!  FUCK IT!!!  OH SHIT!!!"

"You ready for the remainder of your punishment, boy?"

He could have said no.  But the tough, dumb dancer-boy kept on yellin' the
`Sirs' and affirmatives.  The tail of the whip flapped in the air, and once
again I shoved it to his face, turning it toward me.

"Hey kid, you should see the stripes on your pretty butt!  Now, this ol'
Sergeant knows how to lay `em on nice an' neat, but you've got a total of
seven horse-cuts back here.  That's enough for any man.  If we call it
quits now an' head home tomorrow, you'll have proved yourself the toughest
little Ballet-boy in Sergeant Storme's troupe."

"SIR!  FUCK YOU!  SIR!"

Guys, it ain't just any swaggerin' leather-guy who can earn my admiration,
but that floppy-haired boy with the almond-shaped eyes, soft skin, and
tight little backside certainly had it.  I didn't want to lay down any more
cuts, but nor did I want him to face up to what I had in store for the
following day with that welted, burned backside.  The plan all along had
been that the little shit would resign the notion of being a `hard-man' for
Sgt. Storme.  Now, he had taken seven cuts and was ready for more.

He counted the fifth (eighth!) stroke twice, with a "Sir.  Five.  Sir.
Sir.  Five.  Sir," and a tearful discipline and utmost noise, making sure I
heard it.

One to go.

By now he had learned to anticipate it, hearing the ghastly whistle and
jumping against the steel fence before it landed.

"SIR!  ***SIX!!!*** SIR!"

I could hear the finality and relief in his yelps.  The sixth (ninth!)
stroke completed a criss-cross pattern of red stripes laid evenly across
those rising buttocks.  He sagged visibly from the handcuffs, bending over
double with his wet hair touching the ground and his wrists high in the air
behind him.  His bare body glowed in the night with a sheen of sweat,
despite the cold.  In the play of the flashlight I could see his face and
long eyelashes wet with tears.  But they weren't the wailing tears of
blubbergutsin' or cryin'.  There were manfully pressed out, mixed with snot
and dripping sweat.

"Now, boy" I said.  "What do you say to the idea of takin' one more cut?
For luck, if you like."

"NO!!!  SHIT!!!  ***NO!!!***"

"So the answer's no?"

"FUCK!... NO!"

"Yes or no, kid.  You wanna continue with your testin'?"

"OH JESUS!  SIR!  YES!  SIR!  I WANT TO CONTINUE WITH THE TEST!  SIR!"

"You said you were hard enough to take this, boy.  That still the case?"

"SIR!  YES!  SIR!"

"If you want this to be the last one, you better convince me by thankin'
me."

"SIR!  THANK YOU!  SIR!"  There was a wide-eyed desperation in his
upside-down face as he peered between his legs and through the fence.

"You ready, boy?"

There was a pause as he swallowed, choked, and spat.

"Take this one last stroke, boy, an' then get back to work.  We need those
boots spit-polished for tomorrow's training.  Or, alternatively, give it a
miss and come inside.  We'll crack you a beer and get some lotion on those
whip-cuts.  Then you can get all rested up before I take you home for your
Ballet-dancin' lessons and yer can show yer little pals the welt-marks
Sergeant Storme gave yer an' tell `em of your adventure on the farm with
real discipline trainin'"

He swallowed again, then he said; "Sir, those boots need polishing, thank
you, Sir."

The whip whistled, and a healthy set of young lungs signalled its final
arrival at a toned, bare backside.  After ten cuts of the whip, there would
be no more Mr. Nice Guy from Sergeant Storme.  Released from the handcuffs,
he stood hopping from foot to foot, thigh-muscles springing and cock
waggling.  With an expression of grave consternation, he kept swinging his
head round on that dumb-looking long neck, trying to check his ass.  His
hands flicked around with fingers wiggling uselessly.

"Hurts, doesn't it, boy?"

"SIR!  YES!  SIR!"

"Now GET OVER TO THAT FUCKIN' MUSTER SPOT AN' GET SPIT-SHININ' ON THOSE
FUCKIN' BOOTS!" I thundered.

I've never seen someone move so quick.  I swear he bounded twenty yards in
one go, landing with a *slap* of bare feet on the linoleum circle – but
hey, who would want to risk more of the Sergeant's wrath after taking ten
strokes of the whip?  Not you.  Not me.  And certainly not the kid.

I gave him the Dolphin flashlight to work with, and when I headed for the
sack in the bedroom of Mike's old weatherboard house he was rubbing and
spitting furiously – absolutely fucking *intent* on raising a shine.  As
I closed the screen door, the light bobbed at thirty yards distance out
there on the concrete square in the yard.  He wouldn't be moving from the
green spot, not one inch.

Your ol' Sgt. Storme had to be up early so he wasted no time in crawling
between the sheets.

A life in the military teaches a man the necessity of rising with the sun,
or before, and so it was that I was up as the sparrows had their first
fart.  I cooked eggs and bacon and fixed a mug of coffee.  Then I ripped
open three ration packs and took the biscuits out to the kid.  He was
dirty, tired, cold, naked, and his fiery whipped ass positively glowed,
but, by heck, he'd done a creditable job on those boots.  The old gashes
were still there, but patches of that ancient leather were like a mirror
and the inside of the Parade Gloss tin was silvery clean, licked for all it
was worth.

"MUSTER!  FRONT & CENTRE!  GET THOSE FUCKIN' BOOTS ON, TWINKLE-TOES!"

He struggled with the dilapidated footwear to which he'd been attending all
night, the tongues all hanging out and the shiny bits sparkling in the
early morning sun.  Quickly, without sitting, of course, he hopped on one
foot, then the other while he dragged them over his feet.  Then those old
combat boots stood to attention on the green linoleum circle, heels
together, not one millimetre overhanging.

His great thumpin' meat-crank was at attention too, swelling and throbbing
proudly.  I tweaked a dirt-crusty nipple, feeling it harden `till it was
firm as bubble-gum as I watched the erected cock pulsing.

"Good ter see yer kept yer hands off the ol' schlong-sausage during the
night, boy.  No soldier o' mine's gonna be wankin' overnight!  Here.  Get
fed and watered."

I threw him the energy-biscuits and he started wolfing them down greedily
from the concrete, one in his mouth and the others cupped in his hands as
he ran to the faucet.  Ever eaten an out-of-date ration-pack, guys?  Those
biscuits are dry and need to be washed down with plenty of water.

"HURRY UP, DANCIN'-BOY!  YER GOT TEN SECONDS TER GET YER BREAKFAST IN YER!
THEN DANCE YER FAGGOTY LITTLE ASS BACK OVER HERE TO THE MUSTER-SPOT!"

He chewed, gulped, swallowed and gobbled.  He sure was a hungry little
sucker.

"FOUR!  THREE!  TWO!..."

Bang!  The boots slapped onto the muster-circle while the famished young
buck still chomped on a gob-full of soggy biscuit – at attention with
his hands straight down by his sides.  His cock still wobbled upright and
begged for attention at his flat, cobbled belly.  I reached out again and
thoughtfully kneaded one of those little brown nips between thumb and
forefinger.

"Your Sarge's got his own morning boner which needs takin' care of," I
said.  "Any soldier wanna knock the top off?"

"Sir!... Yes... Sir?" he pipped.

"Alright.  Get over there on the grass and kneel.  No.  Get another drink
at the faucet first.  I don't want you slurpin' half-masticated ration-pack
biscuits all over my mast."

The water gushed over his head again, then he scurried to the grass where
he lowered gracefully to his knees.

"Get your hands behind yer head.  Get yer back straight.  Knees apart.
That's right.  Straighten yer back!  Now get yer elbows back.  *Back!* Back
further, cocksucker!  Lace yer fingers behind yer head, shit-for-brains!"

Poised and ready on his knees, the kid raised his head on that swan-neck,
his mouth lolling stupidly and his big, soft brown eyes turned up to me.  I
unzipped and my stiff prong sprung forward.

"Get yer laughin' gear around that, boy, an' start slurpin'!"

A delicate tongue extended, fluttering.  It touched the underside just
where the head joins the shaft, flicking and probing.  Then he drew it
upwards from the balls in a long, wet lick, cleaning the undershaft

"Jeez, kid!  Get yer lips around it will ya?" I panted.  Those brown eyes
flicked upwards to me in silent enquiry.  A big smacking mouth engulfed the
head, and went down, the rough wet tongue working quickly and adroitly.  I
gritted my teeth and hissed.  The kid was something of an expert.  I was
starting to learn he was full of surprises.

Now, my prong is pretty large if I may say so myself, and the kid was going
to find it somewhat difficult to accommodate all of it, and further, I
didn't want to force him down to his tonsils – not after having punished
him with the whip and ordering him to perform this oral massage.  Ol'
Sgt. Storme ain't a thoroughly cruel guy, after all.  But I did place my
dirty big hand in his soft, spiked hair and guide, and jeez!  What a
proficient slurpin' little mouth that kid had!

Oh fuck!  Now it was the kid's turn to take charge of his ol' Sergeant.  He
went up and down, bobbing his head in silence – except for the
occasional sticking suck-noise.

"Yeah, that's good, kid.  Suck on the ol' Sarge's lollipop.  That's the
way!  Good boy!"

"Mmmf," he said.  And fuck, guys, that tongue swirled and spun on my cock
and the teeth touched the head, grazing just around the rim – and shit,
at the top of the rise-fall action the lips enveloped the glans and the
darting tongue flicked right on the end...  Oh shit!  And when he went
down, that tongue moved my ropey skin around, brushing and skimming.
Motherfucker!

I felt a warm surge rising.  I grabbed his hair tightly and held him on.

"Hooo boy, kid!  Keep lickin' an' get ready to swallow!"

"Mmmf!" he said.  I started to pump.

"Mmmf!  Mmmf!  Mmmf!"  His eyes widened in surprise and his hands came away
from behind his head and gripped me each side of my hips, holding onto my
camo pants.  His head was jerking.

"*Mmmf!!!*"

"Ohhhhhhh!  Shiiiiiiit!" I moaned.  I looked up, then down.  As I unloaded
I saw his Adam's apple bobbing as he desperately swallowed.  I thrust and
pumped, and he kept his sweet, supple lips locked onto my driving organ.

"Oh Jeez, kid!  *Suck!!!*"

And suck he did.  He sucked all the come out of me, and I don't think a
drop hit the ground.  Slipping off the end of my cleaned, spit-slick dick,
he doubled over and gently coughed.

"Holy crap, boy," I said breathlessly.  "You done this before!  Where they
teach you that?  That what you learn in Ballet school?"

There were a few more little spits and retches from the lad, then I saw his
hand gently kneading his own stiff cock.

"No yer don't, boy!  Yer gonna need that spunk in yer today!  Get yer
fuckin' hand away from it!  And shit!  Get back to the mark.  Muster, boy.
Front and centre."

With a whimper, he trotted back across the concrete, his big boots slip
slopping on the hard surface, and reluctantly he stood to attention, hands
twitching and bloated cock throbbing.  At that point in time, I'd have to
say that ol' Sgt. Storme wasn't his usual, poised self.  The kid had
momentarily reduced me to a wheezing shipwreck, and now I was still
re-acquiring my breath.

"Okay, kid.  Whew!  Seems like your ol' Sarge should smoke a cigar right
now," I said.  "Stop fiddling around!  Stand to attention properly, will
ya?"

He looked pained.  I guess his pounding erection was causing him some
distress, but you can't let a soldier beat-off on parade.  If the little
punk-rags in my division ever had time to think about pullin' their wangs,
that meant they weren't busy enough – and if I found they'd been
twangin' the old one-string base during the night, that meant they weren't
tired enough.  That's why I always had my men fallen-in first thing in the
morning presenting full erections.  Soft-cocks had been masturbating in
their sheets, and I had to make sure they didn't do it again.

Anyway, enough of that shit.  Right now I had a charged-up young buck who
needed to get stuck into some hard labor to get his mind off his emergent
impulses.  A night of spit-polishing boots with a wicked flogging hadn't
beaten this kid down, and by now I pretty much guessed he was in a good
position to pass the admittance test.  But still, I had some tough trials
of physical endurance lined up which he wouldn't enjoy.  He hadn't slept,
and his backside would have been burning with a Hell's fire after that
whipping, so he can't have been in any mood to begin mowing an overgrown
thirty-acre field of head-high bristle-grass with a heavy scythe.

I bet none o' you guys have ever wielded a scythe, and no doubt the kid
hadn't either – up to that point.  But he learned.  Yep, Mike's field
sure needed some cuttin' down.  I could see it from the elevated farmhouse,
and that bristle-weed sure is an unfriendly and shitty substance to mow
with a scythe.  Thirty acres of it.  On a hot day.  And the naked buck's
whip-raw ass was gonna feel the sweat of a hard day's manual labor on the
farm.

But that will have to wait `till the next instalment, eh guys?  I'd planned
to head home about midday that day, but seeing Mike's crappy overgrown
field had me thinkin' the kid could be put to some use while he was on the
farm.  Now, the use of a scythe would mostly be a lost art I suppose, but
good ol' Sgt. Storme intended to keep the practice alive with some close
instruction and a healthy young worker who was able and willing to learn.

End of Part 2 Chapter 2

rod.storme@yahoo.com